He did not stop. He pushed deeper, and deeper still, a slow, relentless invasion. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stared up at him, reflecting a horror beyond tears. She could feel him in her throat, a solid, pulsing mass that seemed to go on forever. The stretch was agonizing, a constant, burning pressure that threatened to crack her jaw and collapse her windpipe. Her vision began to tunnel again, the edges turning grey. And then he stopped. He was fully sheathed. His pelvis was pressed against her lips and nose, his coarse pubic hair a final, intimate insult. He held himself there, buried to the hilt in her throat. The feeling was one of profound, anatomical violation. She could feel every throb of his pulse, every minute shift of his muscles, transmitted directly into the core of her being. The world was reduced to this single, suffocating point of connection. Her lungs burned, screaming for a full breath, but could only manage shallow, desperate sips of air through her nose. Her throat convulsed weakly around the massive intrusion, a helpless, fluttering spasm. He held the position, a living statue using her face. His obsidian gaze was fixed on hers, watching the play of agony and suffocation, the desperate struggle for air, the absolute submission of her body to his will. He held her there, impaled and choking, for what felt like an eternity, ensuring the lesson was seared into her very soul.
The world had ceased to exist. There was only the thick, veiny reality of him, buried to the hilt in her throat. Silk's consciousness was a flickering candle in a hurricane of violation. Her body was a traitor, a weak, fleshy tube designed for his use. Her every instinct screamed to fight, to gag, to expel the invader, but the iron grip of his will, and his hands, held her fast. The only sounds were the wet, strained whistles of her breathing through her nose and a low, deep hum of satisfaction that began to vibrate in Doom's chest. He began to move. It was not the frantic, punishing pace of before. This was something far more controlled, far more intimate, and therefore, far more degrading. He withdrew slowly, the drag of his slick, thick flesh against the raw, sensitized lining of her throat a fresh torment. Shhhlllluck. The sound was obscenely wet, a noise of deep, internal violation. He pulled back until just the bulbous head remained, stretching her lips, allowing her a single, ragged, half-breath before he pushed forward again.
Shhhllllorp.
Back in. Slow. Deliberate. A piston of living flesh methodically fucking her throat. His hips moved with a rhythmic, grinding cadence that spoke of absolute ownership. This was not about frantic release, it was about the act itself. The act of claiming. The act of remoulding her into his instrument. Silk's hands, which had fallen limp at her sides, twitched. There was nothing to grab, nothing to push against. Her nails dug futilely into the cold, churned earth. Tears streamed from her wide, unseeing eyes, mingling with the saliva and pre-cum that slicked his shaft and dripped from her chin. The initial, sharp agony began to mutate into a dull, throbbing ache, a horrifying numbness that signalled her body's surrender. Her throat, forced open beyond its limits, began to lose its frantic resistance. The convulsive flutters became weaker, less frequent.
Shhhlllluck… Shhhllllorp…
The rhythm was hypnotic, a metronome of her damnation. With each slow, deep stroke, Doom's control seemed to intensify. His breathing, which had been as steady as stone, developed a subtle, deeper cadence. A low, guttural grunt escaped his lips on a particularly deep thrust, a sound that was purely physical, a sign of pleasure wrested from the void within him. The pinpricks of violet light in his eyes seemed to burn a little brighter, their focus shifting from cold observation to something darker, more primal. He was enjoying this. Not just the domination, but the physical sensation. The tight, wet, living heat of her throat, a warmth that was uniquely, organically hers, was a stark, pleasurable contrast to the pervasive cold of the void. 'There you are, my blade,' Ainar's voice purred into his mind, a silken thread of approval woven through the psychic static. The sound was rich with maternal pride and dark delight. 'Finally. You let the cold recede. You feel the warmth of the flesh I gifted you. See how it serves you? See how it can pleasure you, as I always said it could?' Her spectral presence felt less like a guide and more like a voyeur, basking in the spectacle of his awakening physicality. 'You use the lessons well, even without my prompting. To take not just her body, but the very breath from her lungs, to make her throat your sheath… this is control. This is true ownership. This is the reward for the power you have seized.'
Encouraged by her words, or simply by the building tide of his own sensation, Doom's pace began to change. The slow, deliberate fucking became more assertive. The withdrawals were quicker, the thrusts deeper, more forceful.
Shhlup. Shhlup. Shhlup.
The wet, sloppy sounds grew louder, more rhythmic. His grip on the back of her neck tightened, his fingers digging into her scalp, using her head as a handle. His other hand dropped from his shaft, knowing she was now trapped and compliant, and rested on his own hip, his knuckles white. The low grunts became more frequent, rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. He was no longer a statue, he was a man lost in the rhythm of his own pleasure, a pleasure derived from absolute, destructive use. Silk felt the shift. The increased pace, the deeper, more aggressive impacts that made her skull rattle. The numbness in her throat was a blessing and a curse. It shielded her from the worst of the pain, but it also made her a more efficient, more compliant tool for his use. She was no longer fighting, she was enduring. Her mind had fled to a small, dark corner of itself, a place where the sounds, the wet, slapping impacts of his pelvis against her face, the guttural, animalistic sounds he was now making, the choked, wet gurgles she couldn't suppress, were just noises. They weren't happening to her. They were happening to the thing she used to inhabit.
Shhlup! Shhlup! Glllk! Shhlup!
His thrusts became punishing, a steady, relentless drumbeat of violation. He was chasing his climax, using her face, her throat, her very air, to get there. His head tilted back slightly, the cords in his neck standing out, the silver tracery on his skin gleaming with a faint, sickly light. The Ossuary Blade, planted in the earth beside them, seemed to pulse in time with his hips, a silent, approving witness. 'Yes, my son,' Ainar crooned, her voice a symphony of dark triumph. 'Take your pleasure. Spill your seed deep inside this vessel. Mark her from the inside out. Let this be the seal upon your property.' With a final, brutal, deep-throated thrust that felt like it would dislocate her jaw, Doom slammed home and held there. A raw, ragged roar was torn from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that was more terrifying than any battle cry. She felt a hot, pulsing flood erupt deep within her throat, a thick, alien warmth that filled the constricted space and triggered a final, violent, helpless gag from her ruined body.
He held himself there, pumping jet after jet of his essence into her, as she convulsed and shuddered beneath him, her body simultaneously trying to reject him and forced to accept him, making her swallow. When he was finally spent, he did not pull out immediately. He remained lodged in her throat for a long moment, his body shuddering with the aftershocks, his breathing a harsh rasp. Finally, with a wet, final shluck, he withdrew. Silk collapsed forward, a broken marionette. She did not cough or vomit this time. Her body was too broken, too numb. She simply lay there on her hands and knees, a thick, pearlescent strand of his release mixed with her saliva and tears dripping from her lips to the earth. Each ragged breath she dragged into her flayed throat was a fire, a reminder of what had been done to her. Doom looked down at her, his own breathing steadying. The violent light in his eyes had subsided, replaced by a deep, sated calm. The pervasive cold of the void had indeed receded, replaced by a lingering, possessive warmth. He had started to unwound.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by Silk's ragged, wet breaths and the distant, mournful sigh of the wind through the Whisper Wood. She remained on all fours, a posture of utter defeat, her body trembling with aftershocks. The taste of him, salt, iron, and the faint, alien tang of the void, was a permanent brand in her mouth and the back of her throat. A thick, viscous strand of their mingled fluids, his seed, her saliva, the ghost of her bile, dripped from her swollen lips and swung, glistening, before plopping onto the dark earth between her hands. Doom looked down at his own flesh, now slick and gleaming in the dim light. The violent urgency was gone, replaced by a heavy, sated warmth, but the physical evidence of the act remained. A low, possessive growl rumbled in his chest. The cold detachment was returning, but it was now layered over the lingering heat of his release. 'The instrument is soiled, my blade,' Ainar's voice purred in his mind, a silken thread of dark amusement. 'And so is your claim. A master does not leave his tools dirty. Make her clean it. Every last drop. Let her tongue be the cloth that wipes away the proof of her own degradation. It will teach her the finality of her new purpose.' His obsidian gaze, the stellar pinpricks within it now a calm, deep violet, fixed on the back of Silk's head. "Look at me," he rasped, his voice rough from his earlier roar.
The command, though quieter, carried the same absolute weight. Silk flinched, her entire body seizing up. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself back onto her heels. The movement made her throat scream in fresh agony. She lifted her head, her eyes, red-raw and hollow, meeting his. The sight of him, still erect and glistening with their shared filth, made her stomach lurch anew. "Clean it," he commanded, gesturing with a slight nod of his head towards his shaft. "Use your mouth. Get it all." A fresh tear, hot and hopeless, traced a path through the grime on her cheek. There was no fight left. No will. Her spirit was a gutted fish, flopping on a dry deck. She was an instrument. And instruments are cleaned after use. She leaned forward, the motion triggering a wave of dizziness. The scent of him, of sex and sweat and power, filled her nostrils. Her tongue, feeling thick and foreign in her mouth, darted out. The first touch made him twitch, a minor, involuntary reaction. His flesh was hypersensitive in the aftermath, every nerve ending alive. Her tongue was warm and rough. She dragged it along the underside of his shaft, from base to tip, collecting the thick, pearlescent fluid that coated him. The taste was stronger now, concentrated, a potent, musky saltiness that made her want to retch. She forced herself to swallow, the motion a painful ripple in her abused throat.
Schlllp.
The sound was lewd, intimate, a stark contrast to the surrounding desolation. She worked slowly, methodically, her tongue lapping at him like a cat. She cleaned the thick veins, the smooth head, the places where their fluids had mingled and dried. Her movements were clumsy, devoid of art, but thorough. It was the most degrading task she had ever performed, a forced participation in the aftermath of her own violation. Each lap of her tongue was a confirmation of her status, a ritual of ownership.
Lap. Schlllp. Lap.
Doom watched, his breathing steady. The sensation was a strange, sharp counterpoint to the previous brutality. Her tongue, so warm and alive, cleaning the very flesh that had just been used to break her. It was a deeper claim than the fucking itself. He could feel the faint tremors in her body transmitted through the contact. He saw the absolute emptiness in her eyes, and it was more satisfying than any cry of pleasure could have been. 'Good…' Ainar murmured, her spectral presence a cool, approving pressure. 'She learns her place. But see? The flesh is weak, but the will of the Herald is not. You are not yet fully… relaxed' As Silk's tongue made a final, tentative pass over the sensitive tip, he flinched again, more noticeably this time. A low hiss escaped his lips. The sensitivity was a sharp, almost painful edge, but beneath it, the familiar, heavy warmth was stirring once more. The void's cold was held at bay, and the primal, physical engine of his body was not so easily quieted. The cleansed, slick flesh began to thicken and harden again under her ministrations, the blood returning with a relentless, possessive purpose. Silk felt it. The subtle shift in texture, the renewed pulse beneath her tongue. Her eyes, which had been glazed with a protective numbness, widened in dawning, absolute horror. It couldn't be. Not again. Not so soon. Her body couldn't take it. Her mind would shatter completely.
Doom's hand moved, not to force her, but to guide. His fingers, still tangled in her hair, didn't pull, they simply rested there, a reminder of the chain that bound her. With his other hand, he took his now fully re-erect shaft and tapped the slick, broad head against her bruised, trembling lips.
Tap. Tap.
"Start again," he rasped, his voice a low, grating command that brooked no argument. "Use your tongue. A lot more this time." The finality in his tone was a tomb door slamming shut. There was no escape. No end. This was her existence now. A cycle of use and cleaning, of violation and servitude, for as long as he desired. A broken, silent sob wracked her frame. But her body, trained by terror and absolute domination, obeyed. She opened her mouth, her jaw screaming in protest. He pushed the tip past her lips. The taste of him, clean now but no less terrifying, filled her mouth once more. And she began to suck.
Schlup…
Her tongue, following his command, moved with a frantic, desperate energy it hadn't possessed before. It swirled around the head, licking and probing, a pathetic attempt to appease him, to perhaps make him finish faster this time, to end this fresh hell sooner. The sounds were wet, sloppy, and unmistakably lewd.
Schlurp. Glllk. Schlup.
Doom's head tilted back slightly, a low groan rumbling in his chest. The sharp, sensitive pleasure-pain was already building again, faster this time, fuelled by the visual of her absolute submission and the frantic, wet heat of her mouth. The Ossuary Blade hummed softly in the earth beside them, a dark altar to this ongoing sacrament of possession. The unwinding was not over. It had only just begun. And Silk, the dancer, was his instrument, and her song was one of wet, sucking, hopeless despair.